1.) Full House, obvs. What didn't make the list was Taradise — Tara Reid's now defunct travel show — but that's only because I scoured the internet for it and it's NOWHERE to be found. Anyway, here's the rest of the list.

2.) Here's Blossom, and her face.

3.) Bridget's Sexiest Beaches has maybe the worst/best song.

4.) I cannot even wrap my mind around the intro for the latest installment of The Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I don't know if I should mock them, or applaud them for keeping straight faces during their performances.

5.) Remember when Oprah sang her own theme song with Patti LaBelle? I tried to find the actual opening sequence used for the show, but Oprah controls the world and internet now, so we'll have to do with this.

6.) I genuinely like the theme song for the canceled soap Passions, but it gives no indication that this show involves sorcery and dolls who come to life as little people.

7.) I love to hate staged opening credits that feature cast members doing things, and then stopping and looking at the camera. Case in point: Family Matters

9.) I find Night Court to be guilty of this as well.

10.) Even though Ray Charles was obviously still alive when this Designing Women theme was filmed, it looks like they're all hanging out with him in heaven.

Bonus:I don't know why I loved Zoobilee Zoo so much as a child, because really, I should have been terrified.

After taking away my beer, the cute-but-weathered strawberry-blonde lady cop who arrested me put me in a van with two other quality-of-life violators: an old homeless Polish man named Bogden, and a seventeen-year-old black kid named Kevia. Both were arrested for "outstretch": taking up more than one seat on the subway, or lying down on the seats.

We sat in the van for two hours while officers tried to round up another "body," as they're called, for the night's sweep. "Doin' a big sweep on quality-of-life offenses," I heard the baldheaded, babyfaced male cop tell someone on his cellphone. He talked with my arresting officer:

"Billy's officially ruined the unit. It's ovah. It's completely ovah." He shook his head.

"He's the only what who really believes in what we do, though," the lady cop sighed.

They transported us to the precinct in the Canal Street subway station. Still handcuffed, they pulled the bobby pins out of my hair, the shoelaces out of my shoes, took my backpack and all belongings into custody, and removed my belt. My nose was running from not being able to reach my face for two hours, and my makeup was smeared from lying facedown in the police van. I fit right in! They put me in a cell and slammed the door.

My cellmate was a teenage-looking, chubby goth girl with holes in her tights who scratched herself compulsively. We said nothing to each other; meanwhile, the guys in the two cells next to us were practically having a party. They'd gotten some guards to buy them Cokes and were hollering and yelling about "we'll be outta here by 3 a.m., no problem." They were in for the crimes of "outstretch" and turnstile-jumping.

An hour later, it was mugshot and fingerprinting time! Part of the reason I was in jail so long is because my fingerprints wouldn't go through. They use a stupid machine that places your finger on a Xerox-type platen. Not only does it take regular prints, but you also take prints from different angles. I spent an hour being fingerprinted. Mine were too light, and the court kept rejecting them. Technology!

I slept on the wooden bench in my cell, between rounds of attempted fingerprinting. They kept bringing in new prisoners, trying to put them in my cell: "Hey, I thought only girls are allowed in here," I squeaked when they tried to bring in a scruffy dude.

"Why you gotta be like that, baby?" the new prisoner rasped. "We coulda had something real nice goin' on, sweetheart. Why you gotta ruin it like that?" They put him in another cell.

At 7 a.m., my arresting officer tucked a snub-nosed pistol into her hip holster and took me and Bogden, the homeless Pole, to Manhattan Criminal Court. She always cuffed me too tightly.

In the basement of the Court, we waited, still cuffed, to be processed behind a line of older black men who were sitting on the floor, handcuffed together. That is, each man was handcuffed to the other, like a chain gang. We had our mug shots taken again, went to a medical screening to make sure we were mentally sound, and I was taken upstairs to the female holding pen. This is where my real education began.

They were asleep when I came in, about a dozen women stretched out on benches, and in a few cases, thin mats. Oh, the luxury! For the next twelve hours, I eyed the mats jealously.

The two most common questions you get in jail are, "What you in for?" and, "This your first time being locked up?" The other gals awaiting arraignment were in for the following reasons: there was a redhead who had illegally subletted her apartment, a small Japanese exotic dancer who hit her boyfriend with a frying pan ("He had it comin'"), a cluster of Spanish-speaking girls who clustered in the corner and did not socialize, an older Spanish-speaking women for singing for change in the subway, a thirtysomething black woman for a suspended license, a pair of sisters for larceny, check and credit card fraud, a college girl accused of stealing $4,000 from work (she assured us she had not), and a sweet girl in a short coral dress and heels who had been accused of kicking a car while leaving a nightclub. She hadn't kicked the car, but had put up a struggle upon being arrested: "It's because I'm black, isn't it!" It probably was.

Christy, a 44-year-old black woman arrested for having two screens for a pipe in her backpack, was a jail veteran and the unofficial leader of the group. "It's an election year," she said, standing up to deliver a speech. "They sweepin' the streets of us degenerates, of the black folk. We got to band together. Whoever says every man for himself, that's bullshit. They got all us in here all some bullshit charges."

The burly female guards told us, with sadistic glee, that we could be legally held for up to 72 hours. A few girls broke down at this. Christy watched as a twenty-year-old, arrested for turnstile-jumpting, wept. "I was like that the first time I got locked up," she said wistfully. She reminisced about her youth in Times Square: "We would sit in that movie theater and get lifted! You could not even see the muthafuckin' screen, the smoke was so thick."

"This your first time locked up?" she asked me. I nodded. "You're takin' it really well."

Over the next few hours, we talked about Barack Obama (inmates prefer him 10 to 1), MySpace, and how to properly wash your girl-parts. (I think the word they used was "irrigate.") Tattoos were shown and compared. I used the payphone that was outside the cell by reaching my arms through the bars to dial, and pulling the receiver inside. We were given sandwiches, but the guards got nasty when we asked for toilet paper. A small battle ensued.

Nearly 24 hours after being arrested, a guard clanked the keys in the door and yelled my name. I jumped up, and they took me down to Night Court.

Arraignment took less than a minute. All charges were dropped. As I walked out of the courtroom and hailed a cab, I realized that I was reformed! I'll never drink beer in the subway again.

I went at showtime, 'round eight, and purchased a snack from Manhattan Criminal Court's old-timey concession stand.

The first case I caught was about an incident that happened up on West 140th, regarding the "endangerment of the welfare of a child." Heavy stuff, to be sure, but aren't dysfunctional families the plot of every single Eugene O'Neill play?

Earnest young lawyers, policemen, and security personnel swarmed the front of the room, their chatter maintaining a low hum over the proceedings. Families and children slouched in the wooden pews. The real action was in the peanut gallery. Two men seated behind me were providing color commentary on each case, with frequent "Goddamns!" and "Five hundred bail in cash, that's some booollshit." They were well-versed in the intricacies of what they called "the system."

A young woman on the stand, charged with assault in the third degree, wiped away tears as she was led back to the holding pen.

"In the third degree," the man behind me says. "Two kids and two jobs, no criminal record." August Wilson couldn't have said it any better.

Night Court runs 'til one a.m. these days. It hasn't run twenty-four hours since 2003, when the one to eight a.m. "lobster shift" was eliminated. "When I get locked up, I'm already tired and fucked-up anyway; I sleep right up until they bring me out there," the man added.

"You been to Rikers?" asked his companion.

"Naw, I don't like goin' to Rikers."

The grim parade of humanity marched on: lots of assaults—mostly by women!—but also minor driving offenses, drug possession, and something about "she took my girl shopping without permission." All the defendants had dark skin. Maybe white people are just really, really well-behaved in this city? Or was this a tragedy so broad that it was bordering on farce?

Or maybe, as the man behind me put it: "There's some terrorist shit goin' on at the courthouse."